“Who called it in?” Murphy asked an overweight uniformed cop standing inside the propped-open front door.

“Anonymous nine-one-one call,” the fat cop said.

“Some dope fiend would be my guess,” Gaudet offered.

“A dope fiend with a conscience?” Murphy asked.

“I bet he fucked her first.”

“The killer?”

“No,” Gaudet said. “The nine-one-one caller.”

“She’s kind of ripe.”

“Still, I bet there’s more than one sperm sample inside her. One from the killer, one from the caller.”

“She’s a twenty-dollar crack whore,” Murphy said. “We’re going to find a whole sperm bank inside her.”

Outside, the summer sun beat down on the city through a cloudless sky. Sweat ran down Murphy’s face and plastered his shirt and suit coat to his back.

Hardly any of that blinding sunlight, though, penetrated the tomblike interior of the bar. The plywood covering on the doors and windows hadn’t kept out the victim, the killer, or the transient who found the body, but it kept out the light. The only ambient illumination came through the open door.

“How did the first officers get inside?” Murphy asked the fat cop.

The patrolman pointed to a dark hallway at the rear of the building. “Past the restrooms, the back door is off its hinges.”

“Is that how you got in?”

The cop nodded.

“What about the front door?” Gaudet asked.

“It was chained shut from the inside. We used a tire iron to bust open the padlock so we could get some light and some fresh air in here.”

Gaudet turned to Murphy. “How long do you think she’s been here?”

Murphy painted the body with his flashlight. Then he took a deep whiff of the air. “I’d say at least two days.”

A uniformed sergeant stepped through the door. “Hey, Murph…” He looked around the club like someone who had just walked into a dark movie theater. “Where the hell are you?”